


Laugh at this clumsy boy who loves you

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: First Time Bottoming, Fluff, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-21
Updated: 2017-09-21
Packaged: 2019-01-03 21:19:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12155013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: "God," Harry whispers, borderline frantic, "godI can't wait to get your cock in me, you don't know how long I've wanted it.""You never said." He gives Harry another dripping wet finger, working the two in side by side with a steadiness that's so much calmer than his racing heart, and Harry whines like he's being tortured."You seemed so satisfied with the way things were.""Since when have you cared a jot about maintaining any kind of status quo?" Hamish asks, teasing Harry with the words just as much as the fingers twisting slowly deeper in his arse.Harry looks like the pretty, pale boys in old Victorian dirty photos, bare porcelain skin in the lamplight and a blush in his cheeks that looks like it's been tinted with a paintbrush. "Since your happiness overtook every other objective of my life."





	Laugh at this clumsy boy who loves you

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [неуклюжий мальчик, что тебя лишь любит](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13006803) by [bikeisreal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bikeisreal/pseuds/bikeisreal)



> Tumblr anon: "what about young merlahad in the early days of their relationship where harry was always topping, and one night harry asks merlin if they could switch places and thus bottom harry was born"
> 
> YOU KNOW MY FEELINGS ABOUT BOTTOM HARRY, there is no way this could be confined to a drabble :P

"What does it feel like?" Harry asks in a hushed little whisper against Hamish's mouth.

The bedroom is dim, just the distant glow of the streetlamp down the road filtering in through the thin curtains, but it's enough to highlight the curves and lines of Harry's handsome face when he stops the insistent movement of his hips and props himself on his forearms, looking down at Hamish. He licks his lips as though he's nervous, swiping the glow of sweat and kiss-spit away from his philtrum, but the look in his eyes and the tone of his voice when he speaks next are both utterly brazen.

"Tell me." He moves again, a languorous slide almost all the way out and then back in. Hamish's breath tumbles out of him in something that might be a laugh if only he had the energy to put some sound into it, and Harry's eyes turn fiery and hungry. He shifts position to rest his weight on one arm now so he can take Hamish's face into his hand, stroking his cheekbone gently with his thumb the way he did two months ago when they staggered half-cut into a doorway round the back of the Camden Palace and kissed for the first time in the sheeting midnight rain. "Please. Tell me what it feels like. I want to know how good it is."

"You can't tell?" Hamish asks breathlessly. He wriggles a bit on the bed, trying in vain to work Harry's cock deeper inside him and his own into the wet grip of Harry's hand at the same time. "It's--" His voice cracks in half when Harry pulls out again and begins to fuck him steadily like before, but slower, staring at him, holding his face still so he can't twist his burning cheek into the safety of the pillow. " _Full_ ," he manages to gasp out, "fuck, Harry, you're so big."

It comes out sounding excruciatingly corny, but it's impossible to feel embarrassed about it when it's making Harry's mouth curl up into a secret, lovely, pleased little smile. "You needn't try to chat me up, I'm already inside you."

"Shut up." He hauls Harry closer for another kiss by tugging impatiently at his deflated hairdo, crunchy and voluminous under Hamish's fingers with gallons of fancy product. He feels strangely gratified by the collapse, and that he's allowed to see it; Harry's vanity is a colossus, and watching it teeter is like watching some huge force of nature explode the sky, like the theatre-curtain drape of the northern lights.

"Tell me," Harry insists, muffled against his mouth.

Hamish's accent gets more pronounced when he's turned on. So does Harry's, always prompting a weird vague sensation that he's being fucked out of his mind by a what-ho BBC news reporter from the war. "Do you want me to show you?" he asks, sliding the hand not snarled in Harry's hair down the full length of his naked spine to clutch at the glorious soft wobble of his beautiful arse.

Harry makes a stunned little noise at the squeeze and darts down to kiss him again, rocking his hips to drive his cock almost impossibly another half an inch deeper. He stays still there, hot and solid inside Hamish and barely reacting to the pressure of flesh around his cock when Hamish wriggles again, trying to urge him to move. Harry kisses him instead, softer than before, fingertips lingering on his neck and behind his ears gently enough to conjure a shuddering rush of goosebumps on his skin that's not so much to do with the touch, but the unexpected affection. He's still not quite used to that.

"Don't you enjoy what we do?"

"Of course I do." Dizzy with need, Hamish fights the urge to squirm again against the unfamiliar, almost overwhelming sensation of Harry's thick cock tucked tight in his arse, stretching him not quite to the point of pain and holding him open without even the respite and friction of thrusts. "Can I show you?"

Harry relents at last, withdrawing deliciously slowly with a gleam in his eye that suggests he knows exactly how much it's making Hamish's skin prickle. When he strips off his condom he throws it vaguely in the direction of the bin beside the bedside table, where it drapes like something disgusting and dead across the rim, before turning the lamp on and fumbling in the drawer for a fresh one.

"There," he says, an extraordinary mixture of fussy and tender, as he's fitting it over Hamish's cock and leaning over to suck the end into his mouth for a moment. When he lowers himself onto Hamish's body again, a solid glorious heavy weight pinning him to the mattress, he briefly tastes like the rubber until the greedy exchange of spit wears it away. "Now you're dressed for the occasion."

Hamish employs his considerably bony knees and elbows to nudge Harry on all his soft parts until he's laughing and moving away at last, rolling onto his back beside him. Harry's hair is an incredible disaster against the pillow, like a hand grenade thrown at a bird's nest; he's going to spend half an hour before they go to the shop tomorrow teasing it back to its towering Top of the Pops bouffant, he always does. For some reason his vanity extends to despising the natural curl of his hair, no matter how many times he wakes in the morning after showering the night before to Hamish wrapping the soft collapsed ringlets around his fingertips with a dopey look on his face that probably does more to convey how smitten he is than any number of words he hasn't dared to speak yet. "You look ridiculous," he says. _I adore you_. "Your hair should be illegal." _You're the loveliest thing I've ever seen_.

Harry looks far too proud of himself, like it's the greatest compliment in the world, and settles there against his pillow with one arm thrown carelessly above his head. The stretch of it defines his ribcage on one side, and the gentle bulge of his arm muscles. He doesn't look like much, especially not like this, all soft and slender making dreamy bedroom eyes up at the man asking to fuck him, but it's not twelve hours yet since he snapped four necks with his bare hands and shot a maniacal weapons smuggler in the head with one of his own illegal guns down at the Royal Albert Dock. Harry's as ruthlessly dangerous as anyone, certainly more so than Hamish himself. Seeing him like this, it always feels as though he's stripped off his agent shell along with his bullet-resistant tailored suit, and what remains of him is some secret core that he never shows to anyone.

"What?" Harry says softly. He sounds amused and flirty but not entirely natural, like he might be trying to hide how self-conscious all this scrutiny makes him.

"When you're like this," Hamish starts, then hesitates because he's not sure how to finish his thought. "You make me think of a cat rolling over to show his belly. Then anyone who goes in for a rub gets clawed to ribbons."

He submits to Harry's insistent fingers pulling on his wrist, settling between Harry's sprawled legs with his covered cock touching Harry's bare one between the press of their stomachs. "I'm not going to turn down a rub," Harry murmurs between a scatter of kisses to Hamish's chin and cheeks, "but I can't promise I won't scratch you." He trails one fingernail very gently down Hamish's shoulder blade to demonstrate, and laughs breathlessly when he feels the wracking shiver it sets off. "Depending on how proficient you are, of course."

Hamish reaches for the lubricant on the bedside table. He's glad the lamp is on; Harry's become so used to fingering him ready that they don't need light any more for it, but the desire to watch Harry's face now it's his turn is so strong that he thinks his mouth might start watering like an uncontrollable dog.

Harry watches him wet his fingers, and the way he licks his lips is nervous and uncertain and completely in opposition to all the brash flirting from before. "I've never," he starts, and Hamish says, "I know. I'll show you. Easiest thing in the world."

The first wet touch makes Harry laugh, giddy and almost silent. His eyes slide shut as though he wants to block out every unnecessary sense and concentrate only on the unfamiliar slide and push of fingers between his legs. "This is already fairly marvellous," he says, slow and quiet the same way he talks when he's five gins into the evening and doesn't want to let on how tipsy he is. "I suppose it gets even better?"

"Yes." Hamish squeezes another measure of lubricant out of the tube and presses just the first joint of his finger inside, or at least that's his intention; Harry makes a sound Hamish is entirely sure nobody in the world has ever made before and grabs his wrist again, urging him deeper.

"God," Harry whispers, borderline frantic, " _god_ I can't wait to get your cock in me, you don't know how long I've wanted it."

"You never said." He gives Harry another dripping wet finger, working the two in side by side with a steadiness that's so much calmer than his racing heart, and Harry whines like he's being tortured.

"You seemed so satisfied with the way things were."

"Since when have you cared a jot about maintaining any kind of status quo?" Hamish asks, teasing Harry with the words just as much as the fingers twisting slowly deeper in his arse.

Harry looks like the pretty, pale boys in old Victorian dirty photos, bare porcelain skin in the lamplight and a blush in his cheeks that looks like it's been tinted with a paintbrush. "Since your happiness overtook every other objective of my life."

It gives Hamish a funny tumbling sensation in his stomach; Harry never, ever sounds this sincere about anything. "I'm happy now," he says, and watches the deep notch of dimples appear in Harry's cheeks, bracketing his wide, flustered smile. "You wanted to know how it feels. Tell me."

"Warm," Harry says immediately. Hamish can see the movement of his eyes through his closed lids, as if he's deep asleep and dreaming. "Full, exactly as you said. I can take another."

"Not yet."

Harry finally opens his eyes, fixing the heat of his gaze right on Hamish. His lips are bitten red, no longer smiling but wet and parted the same dazed way he looks in the moments after a kiss that's lasted for hours. "I swear to Christ if you gave me a pen and paper right now I could draw your fingerprints. _That's_ how it feels."

Hamish works the tip of his third finger in beside the others because he can't think of anything to say, which is probably the best idea anyway because it seems Harry's got enough to say for both of them. The stretch of the third makes his back arch so hard that he almost drags himself right off Hamish's fingers, and probably would have done if he didn't have a vice grip on his wrist.

" _Now_ ," Harry insists somewhere in the middle of a lengthy string of swears. His breath keeps catching in his mouth every time Hamish moves his hand, a pleading whine on every exhale. "Darling, now."

"Darling?" Hamish repeats. He wants to tease, because that's always been the kind of friendship they've had right from the first day of agent training, but Harry's smile goes wide again, toothy and elated and ridiculous, and a quivering sort of laugh escapes him.

"You heard perfectly well."

"Why do I get the feeling you're only saying it so I give you what you want?"

"Because you're a suspicious old thing, and stubborn to boot. You must know I'm besotted with you." Harry finds the half-empty tube on the bedside table and gets his hand dripping wet, reaching between them to curl his slick fingers tight around Hamish's cock. "If you don't put this exquisite work of art inside my body in the next ten seconds I may very well scream like a train whistle and wake every one of your neighbours."

"You do that anyway every single time I make you come," Hamish points out, and Harry laughs again, near delirious with thirst.

" _Yes_ , for god's sake, please." Even with all the fuss he's making he still can't help a disappointed little grumble at the loss of the fingertips stretching him open, though it's replaced immediately by a glorious and really quite flattering moan when Hamish guides his cock to Harry and fills him up again.

"There," he says, doing his best not to sound choked; it's half a year or more since he's done this with anyone, and though of course he remembers what it's like it's very different actually feeling it, this slick hot glide of flesh clenching all around the heavy length of his cock. He wipes his messy fingers on the sheet and plants his hands either side of Harry's head, looking down at his blissed-out face to watch for any sign he's not actually as into this as he thought it would be. "Harry. Alright?"

Instead of words, Harry nods his head feverishly and reaches up to curl both arms around Hamish's neck, drawing him down into a frantic, begging kiss. "Move," he pleads, the words half-lost between their mouths because he doesn't seem to want to stop kissing long enough to speak. Hamish moves as commanded, out so far that only the head of him is still caught in Harry's arse and then driving smoothly forward in a slick thrust that makes Harry spill a sound that's almost like a sob and set his teeth in Hamish's shoulder trying to be quiet.

"It can't possibly feel that good," Hamish says through disbelieving laughter, finding a rapid rhythm that makes Harry writhe on the bed beneath the weight of his body.

"Yes it does," Harry says, or more like gasps, "it fucking _does_ , I can't feel my fingers."

"Well that doesn't sound right, maybe I should stop..."

"NO."

Harry's so much stronger than he looks, trained to throw people twice his size around like they're nothing more than paper dolls, and Hamish submits happily to being twisted and shoved onto his back on the mattress. He lets his head sink into the dent Harry's own made in the feather pillow, watching the tremble of his thighs holding him up astride Hamish's hips, and curls his fingers around his own cock again to help guide it back inside when Harry sits down hard and opens up around him with a satisfied groan that's almost certainly going to get Hamish some angry looks in the hallway the next time he bumps into his neighbours.

"Is that better?"

"It's fucking phenomenal," Harry says through laughter that sounds more than a little bit stunned and slightly hysterical. He's not wrong; he's taking to this like he's been doing it for years already, settling with Hamish's cock fully inside the hot slick clench of him and raising himself on his knees, dropping down again, rising and falling and stroking his own straining cock with the hand still wet with lube. "Tell me how the fuck you ever find pleasure in anything else once you've done this? How am I supposed to read Neruda or think ooh what a pretty rainbow ever again when I'll know for the rest of my life I could be doing this"--on _this_ he sinks down, taking Hamish's cock inside him right to the root, and leans in to kiss him ferociously before finishing his sentence--"and I'd be happier?"

"You are the most ridiculous person I've ever known in my life," Hamish tells him, but he can't stop kissing back or rocketing his hips up to meet Harry's frantic movements above him. "What'll you do if I start reciting Neruda right now?"

"Don't you dare, I'll fucking die."

"Do you honestly think I can remember a single bloody word of poetry when you're naked in my lap?" He's not exaggerating, he really can't; but then a scrap of a memory flashes into his head and he finds himself saying against Harry's burning cheek, "Laugh at the night, at the day, at the moon, laugh at the twisted streets of the island, laugh at this clumsy boy who loves you--"

Harry's caught somewhere between mortally wounded and delighted, helpless laughter. "I hate you, I can't bear it, shush."

"--how does it go, I can't remember, something something deny me bread, air, light, spring, but never your laughter, for I would die."

"You'll die with my hands around your throat if you don't stop."

"Harry." His voice comes out of him shaky and desperate. He can feel the telltale electric heat flickering up and down his spine and it means he's going to have to use every trick he can think of to get Harry off in the next minute or so otherwise he'll going to embarrass the hell out of himself and ruin everything. He reaches his hand in between them and closes his fingers tight around Harry's cock to start stroking him off; this part, at least, is as familiar to both of them as the shape of their own faces.

"Clumsy boy," Harry says fondly. That wide woozy grin spreads over his handsome dimpled face again and he goes completely still, full of cock, letting Hamish bring him off with just another half a dozen strokes of his trembling hand. "Come in me," he demands when he's stopped yelling and can speak normally again, fixing Hamish with a bright-eyed, commanding stare that looks incredibly silly and out of place between the collapsed mess of his hair and his bitten-pink beautiful mouth. "You're inside me, come inside me, do it now."

He's always much more conservative about it than Harry, who appears to have born without a sense of shame, and ever since boarding school he's had a habit of throwing his arm across his mouth when he comes to muffle any noises that might try to slip out, but this time he pushes back against the perpetual urge to control himself and lets Harry see him squeeze his eyes shut and clutch at the pillow, lets every unfettered moan and cry come tumbling out of his mouth and into the sticky hot air of the bedroom.

Harry finally disengages when he done, stripping the condom off him and disposing of this one with a bit more care since it's not empty. He comes back from the bathroom down the hall, unabashedly confident in his nudity as though he's out for a stroll in the park and it's normal not to wear clothes, and crawls under the covers without bothering to put his pyjama trousers back on the way Hamish always does when it's time to sleep.

"Get some rest," he says, manhandling Hamish onto his side so he can tuck the entire length of his body up behind him and touch a line of soft, shivery kisses to the back of his neck. "Not sure yet whether I liked that, so I'd appreciate another try before we go to work.

Hamish has to fight off an honest to god _giggle_ ; afterglow always makes him lightheaded. "Aren't you sore?"

"Oh yes," Harry says happily, "internal bruising right up my pipes to my throat, I expect," and five minutes later he's fallen asleep right where he is, with his nose tucked against Hamish's nape and one hand curled into a loose fist over his fluttering, idiotic heart.

**Author's Note:**

> Take bread away from me, if you wish,  
> take air away, but  
> do not take from me your laughter.
> 
> Do not take away the rose,  
> the lance flower that you pluck,  
> the water that suddenly  
> bursts forth in joy,  
> the sudden wave  
> of silver born in you.
> 
> My struggle is harsh and I come back  
> with eyes tired  
> at times from having seen  
> the unchanging earth,  
> but when your laughter enters  
> it rises to the sky seeking me  
> and it opens for me all  
> the doors of life.
> 
> My love, in the darkest  
> hour your laughter  
> opens, and if suddenly  
> you see my blood staining  
> the stones of the street,  
> laugh, because your laughter  
> will be for my hands  
> like a fresh sword.
> 
> Next to the sea in the autumn,  
> your laughter must raise  
> its foamy cascade,  
> and in the spring, love,  
> I want your laughter like  
> the flower I was waiting for,  
> the blue flower, the rose  
> of my echoing country.
> 
> Laugh at the night,  
> at the day, at the moon,  
> laugh at the twisted  
> streets of the island,  
> laugh at this clumsy  
> boy who loves you,  
> but when I open  
> my eyes and close them,  
> when my steps go,  
> when my steps return,  
> deny me bread, air,  
> light, spring,  
> but never your laughter  
> for I would die.
> 
> Pablo Neruda


End file.
